


Cast Iron

by Moorishflower



Series: The Forge 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't like Gabriel goes around asking for life to kick him in the balls. That's just how it keeps turning out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cast Iron

  
The Apocalypse fizzles out, not with a bang, but with something that couldn't even be called a whimper, unless of course you were one of those people with super-sensitive hearing, and then maybe it would be a squeak, or a hiss. Maybe.

For a whole three weeks after the world fails to end, Gabriel familiarizes himself with cooking and cleaning (the first time he found mold growing on a half loaf of bread is particularly memorable), with taking care of his frail new body, with being human in the most basic and simple of ways. Becky continues to call and offer an odd blend of advice and comfort, things like "Chuck probably won't mind if you use his cards to get cash for groceries - his PIN is five-three-nine-nine-two. Do you know when he's coming back?" Or, "I read that homicides have dropped like fifteen percent in the Detroit area, I guess the world really _hasn't_ ended – did Chuck ever say where he was going?"

Gabriel avoids answering as best he can. He has suspicions, but no facts, and he gets the feeling that Becky won't be satisfied with anything less than the absolute truth. He focuses on himself, for the moment.

Chuck's home is a fair walk from any of the larger grocers, but Gabriel finds a corner store that's only a few minutes away, one that carries bread, and packages of hot dogs, and frozen pizzas. It's a start.

The first thing he does is burn the pizza.

Gabriel makes pancakes for dinner and resolves to read the instructions more carefully next time.

~

The hot dogs are a little easier to deal with. Microwaving them and then putting them between slices of bread isn't exactly a Fourth of July barbecue, but it keeps him fed.

He almost cries when he tries chocolate ice cream for the (almost) first time, his tongue finally awakened from its numb sleep. The absurdity of taste and touch and scent is growing on him. Sweet things no longer hurt his teeth.

Gabriel finds chocolate chips in the freezer and tries adding them to the pancakes, when next he makes them. They turn out gooey and they fall apart on his fork, but they're wonderful in ways he can't even begin to comprehend.

~

Teaching himself to cook is one thing. There are websites that tell you how to make hardboiled eggs, or grilled cheese sandwiches, or how to peel and bake potatoes.

There aren't really any websites that tell you how to drive.

It's a work in progress, really.

~

Tuesday of the third week is when Sam Winchester shows up at the door, shivering and looking about five seconds away from puking all over the welcome mat. Gabriel knows the feeling. At night, he wraps himself up in three different blankets because he isn't used to feeling cold – his Grace is no longer there to keep him warm.

"Chuck," Sam says. He tilts slightly to the right, and then catches himself. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, like he isn't sure he's supposed to be here. And he isn't, not really – Gabriel read the last few pages of the Winchester Gospel, the rough copies of the final book on Chuck's laptop, and he knows how it ended. Michael and Lucifer in the graveyard. The Impala. The power of love saving the day, Sam sacrificing himself to the Pit, Castiel's resurrection and the triumphant return of God – sort of.

Hoo fucking ray.

So Sam shouldn't be here. He should be rotting a couple thousand metaphysical miles beneath the earth, trapped with Michael and Lucifer for all of eternity. Playing chess or something, he doesn't care. But Sam is standing _right there_.

Maybe it's a hallucination.

"Chuck isn't here," Gabriel says firmly. Because the Apocalypse has been effectively snuffed and Gabriel's desire to make contact with the Winchesters has died with it. And he can't very well apologize to Castiel while he's some bigwig in Heaven, can he? Better to just forget everything, even if the loss of his brothers and sisters leaves him cold and aching and muffling sobs almost every single night. It's worse, now that Chuck is gone.

"Chuck lives here," Sam says. He rests one gigantic freaking hand against the doorframe, and Gabriel glances at it. Lucifer would have used those hands to rip apart the foundation of the universe. Those hands would have been bathed in blood and tempered in the fires of Hell, and yet here they are, still somehow attached to the arm of a man whose life easily rivals every tragic poem ever written for cruel irony and sheer fucked-up-itude.

"Yeah, well, not anymore." It feels like kicking a puppy. Sam's lower lip trembles.

"The sky told me to come here," he insists, with all the conviction and urgency of the markedly insane, or maybe it's just that Winchester stubborn streak, Gabriel isn't sure, and he doesn't care either way. Sam can go be insane somewhere else, somewhere that isn't Gabriel's front porch.

Except that then Sam pitches over and Gabriel has to scramble backwards to get out of the way; his head hits the carpet rather than the door, making a muted _thud_ sound. Sam's eyes roll up, and then flutter closed, and he's still.

"Damnit," Gabriel says, and steels himself for hours of aching muscles, because Sam probably weighs like two-hundred pounds or more and Gabriel is going to have to drag his sorry ass inside before the neighbors get suspicious.

Sam mumbles into the carpet. "Fuck you," Gabriel snarls, but Sam doesn't respond.

~

Fortunately, it's _Tuesday_. Most of the neighbors are at work, and Gabriel manages to haul Sam's deadweight inside before anyone calls the police. He hates himself a little more every time he reminds himself that, a month ago, he wouldn't have cared. He could have snapped his fingers and flown Sam to Miami if he'd wanted. Turned them invisible. Banished any cops who dared show up to Nepal.

He gets Sam to the couch and then dumps him there, long limbs splayed everywhere and his stupid floppy hair draped over the arm of the couch. Gabriel eyes it with malicious intent, then decides that it's too much effort to hunt down a pair of scissors.

He pulls the almost-empty bottle of Excedrin down from the medicine cabinet and pops two of them; he just _knows_ he's going to end the night with a headache, and he wants to delay it for as long as possible. Then he makes himself a sandwich that consists of leftover swiss cheese and a hot dog and some mustard, and considers the merits of actually buying shit to _cook_ with, rather than stuff he just puts on a plate and eats.

Sam opens his eyes about an hour later, and Gabriel takes the opportunity to tell him how stupid he is, how saying 'yes' to Lucifer, to fucking _Lucifer_, had been the most pants-shittingly idiotic thing anyone has ever done in the history of everything, and Gabriel's surprised he's still got a body to inhabit, let alone a sense of self and a brain that _functions_, and Sam just lays there and takes it all, unblinking.

Gabriel snaps his fingers under Sam's nose, ignoring how the motion sets off a flare of pain somewhere in his chest.

Sam's eyes don't follow the movement. He stares at some unfocused, distant point somewhere beyond Gabriel's left shoulder and he doesn't move. Gabriel panics for a second (because he's human now, and if Dean ever finds out that Gabriel let his little brother die on a couch belonging to a maybe-prophet then there will be no mercy and Gabriel's second chance at life will amount to junk food and a shallow grave in the woods), lays his palm against Sam's chest in order to determine whether there's an actual human heart in there, or if it's just some cleverly-concealed fragment of Lucifer's grace, growing in the warm cavity of Sam's ribs like a fungus or an animal that's curled itself up to die.

But there's just the slow, clockwork rhythm of his heart, and the scorching heat of Sam's skin, and Gabriel realizes that, even if Lucifer _did_ try to hitch a ride out of Hell, either all of him or just some broken-off piece, he wouldn't know. He can't recognize an angel from a fruit basket these days. He had been hoping he would never have to.

Sam twitches, and Gabriel realizes that he's been rubbing his fingers in small circles, marveling at the tactile sensation of someone else's shirt over flesh that isn't his.

"You aren't supposed to be here," Gabriel says softly. He doesn't look up.

"The sky told me." It's barely a whisper. Gabriel's surprised he hears it at all. And then, "Dean? Where's Dean?"

And because it's a step up from crying for a prophet who isn't there, Gabriel gives Sam half his sandwich and then watches him refuse to eat it.

"Everyone's a critic," he mutters.

~

Sam remembers his brother.

He remembers Dean, and he remembers scattered events, names and faces, but everything else has been lost to the sky: the sky telling him to go to Chuck's house, the sky telling him he needs to stay and wait for instructions. The sky telling him that he's half a person, and that the parts of him that got spit out again are only the broken notions of blood and pain, gun smoke and fire.

Gabriel would be the first in line to tell Sam how well instructions from the sky turn out, but Sam doesn't really…_listen_. Not to Gabriel. Only to some voice, high up in the clouds, saying how worthless he is.

The hot dog sandwich was a failure, and the microwave pizza rolls after that, and by the third day Gabriel is starting to get desperate, because he remembers too vividly how it had felt, walking until he was sure that the acid in his stomach would eat all the way through to the soles of his feet, demanding his bones in compensation. He finds a can of soup in the pantry, and the instructions seem pretty benign – there are relatively few ways to fuck up soup, he thinks.

The smell of chicken and noodles is apparently enough to rouse some tucked-away memory, and Sam actually _gets up from the couch_ and wanders into the kitchen on his own. It's the first time he's moved since Gabriel found him on his doorstep, and it sends a spike of relief surging through him. Maybe Sam is broken, somehow, but at least he's not so broken that he doesn't remember how to walk.

Sam drops down into one of the kitchen chairs, facing the table, but he doesn't say a word, and when Gabriel sets a steaming bowl of soup and a spoon in front of him, he doesn't reach for the cutlery, he doesn't pick up the bowl, and he doesn't eat.

"You're the worst house guest ever," Gabriel informs him. What is he supposed to do? Stick a tube down Sam's throat and _force_ him to eat? Bring him to a hospital, somehow? Someplace where people who actually know what they're doing can take care of him. Gabriel slides his gaze from Sam's expressionless face to the phone. It would be so easy. Just a quick call and he can have an ambulance here in less than an hour.

Instead, he picks up the spoon himself, dips it in the soup, and holds it to Sam's lips.

"You have to eat," he says peevishly, and, when that doesn't get a response, "Eat or I'll tell the sky you're being a pain in the ass."

It's the first reaction he's gotten in days: Sam's eyes widen, his muscles tense, and then, after a long moment of silence (it's probably only a few seconds, Gabriel is still unused to the way that time works for humans, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter), he parts his lips and lets Gabriel spoon-feed him chicken noodle soup.

It occurs to him that threatening a man who may or may not be insane with imaginary celestial vengeance is kind of a dick move. But he's so tired all the time, and so cold, so he can't really bring himself to care.

Sam barely chews, just swallows until Gabriel's arm is tired and half the soup is gone, and Gabriel is surprised to find himself…talking. About how he hurts all the time, deep muscle aches that no amount of rest can cure, how cold he gets at night, how half the time he's afraid (_afraid_, and he used to be so _powerful_) to go outside, because what if he gets lost? What if he gets mugged? There are so many things that can go wrong, and by the time the bowl is empty he has to fold his arms on the table and rest his cheek against them, holding the shivers and the stupidly hot tears inside him while Sam stares blankly at his soup, unfocused, offering no comfort.

~

One of the first things Chuck had taught Gabriel was how to bathe himself. The prophet had stood awkwardly outside the firmly-shut bathroom door, shouting instructions while Gabriel made himself familiar with the sink, the medicine cabinet, the mirror, and, eventually, the shower and tub. He'd spent a full ten minutes just letting the hot water run over his fingers, marveling at it. Then, Chuck's audibly mortified voice still guiding him, he had slipped out of all his clothes for the first time since he'd died and had actually _looked_ at his body.

He had been surprised, by what he'd found: an average human male, a bit on the short side, with too-long hair and a small chin. He had studied the curve of his belly and his thighs and his shoulders in the mirror while Chuck made worried noises in the hall, trying to understand himself, trying to think like a _human_. The only thing he could come up with was that, without his Grace burning inside of him, he was…ordinary. He was neither hideous nor beautiful, and with no special skills or particular sharpness of wit to set him apart from any other Joe Schmoe.

Studying himself in the mirror, he had briefly considered the pros and cons of onanism, but at that point Chuck had started to sound impatient, so he had fumbled through the acts of washing his hair and his body, of rinsing the suds away, of drying himself off.

Bathing Sam is going to be exactly like that. He just…has to walk himself through it the way Chuck had. It'll be a little more hands-on, considering Sam's continued stubbornness on the act of _doing things_ (especially without soup-related encouragement), but he can do it. He thinks he's managed fairly well at being human, so far. He can manage to be human for someone else, too.

Getting Sam into the bathroom isn't hard – he doesn't eat on his own, or drink, or much of anything else (and the less said about that, the better), but Sam lets himself be posed like a mannequin, and he moves if Gabriel shoves at him. When he pulls Sam up from the couch, the younger Winchester unfolds like a fucking accordion, and when Gabriel tugs him down the hall to the bathroom, he follows.

It's once they're actually _in_ the bathroom that Gabriel runs into a small snag.

Namely, Sam's clothes.

"We need to get your shirt off," Gabriel says, and Sam stares at him. He blinks, now – like clockwork, every fifteen seconds or so, and Gabriel never realized how creepy that was to people, before. Now he sees it and he's reminded of his own humanity, and now _Sam_ is something…other. Maybe. He still isn't sure.

Right now, the bigger issue is that Sam needs to get naked, or else Gabriel is going to shove him in the shower and just leave him there.

"_Shirt_," he repeats, and curls his fingers in the hem of Sam's tee. He lifts up, and Sam, after a moment of incomprehension, slowly raises his arms and lets Gabriel strip the thing from him. Gabriel isn't even going to bother washing it – he's probably only imagining the smell of brimstone, but it never hurts to be safe, and if he salts and burns the thing in the back yard, the only thing they're going to be out is some salt and a shirt that was bound for the rag pile anyways.

His thumb brushes over Sam's collarbone, and he hisses softly. There are times when sensation creeps up on him, startles him, and skin-to-skin contact is still a grey area for him. Sometimes it's too much, sometimes it's too little, and he braces himself for that weird scraping sensation, the way it had felt in the hospital when the nurses had touched him. The way it had felt with Chuck, hauling him out of the car.

It never comes.

He sweeps his fingertips over the curve of Sam's shoulder, just to make sure, and then draws his hand back. It's nothing but smooth, warm skin, and he thinks it would be like touching himself, except Sam shivers in the wake of his fingertips, a quick little twitch, and then stillness.

Gabriel swallows against the lump in his throat.

_Hey there, libido,_ he thinks. _I'm glad to see you're still in working condition, but this whole thing is already pretty fucked up and it doesn't need more help from you._

Gabriel swallows again, and then slowly lowers himself down to one knee. He unties Sam's boots, one at a time, and then prods Sam's calf until the too-long legs pick up. Once the boots and socks are off, he fumbles with the button of Sam's jeans, pulls the zip down, and then shucks pants and boxers to the floor.

"Lift up," he says, and, wonder of wonders, Sam picks up his foot after a moment of hesitation.

"I miss Dean," he says softly, and Gabriel snorts, because _of course_, after three days of almost complete radio silence, the first thing that Sam says has to do with his fucking _brother_. Not, you know, how much _Gabriel_ has sacrificed. How much he's lost. How much he's still giving up, in order to take care of Sam.

"The last thing you should be thinking about when you're naked is your brother," he says, and Sam blinks down at him as he reaches across the tub, runs the water until it's hot and then plugs up the drain. "Alright, kiddo, into the tub."

Sam stares at the white porcelain for a few minutes, then hesitantly places his bare foot in the tub. He wiggles his toes in the water, which leaves Gabriel face to knee with the longest fucking stretch of skin he can possibly imagine. Gabriel determinedly doesn't look anywhere but straight ahead at the nice, inoffensive tiled wall as Sam lifts his other foot, and then sinks down into the tub.

And he does all of this without a single push or nudge from Gabriel.

"That's an improvement, I guess," Gabriel praises hesitantly, then reaches for the washcloth and the bar of soap (Chuck had spent a whole ten minutes arguing that 'pumpkin spice' was a perfectly manly scent and _don't you judge him for it_), lathering it and then smoothing the washcloth down the length of Sam's arm. He lets Gabriel lift it at the elbow, diligently scrubbing away three days of nightmares and inactivity. Sam twitches when Gabriel draws his fingers over the sharp angle of his ribs.

"Gabriel," Sam says, and holy _shit_. Gabriel has to stop and stare, because the only things that Sam has mentioned in the past three days have been Dean and nonsensical ramblings about the fucking _sky_, so this is…this is big. Gabriel doesn't know a lot about how humans work, you know, in the head, but even _he_ can tell that this is…something. Some kind of step forward.

"You're Gabriel," Sam insists, and Gabriel draws a line of soapsuds across the guy's chest, exhaling shaky and slow.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, Sam, that's me."

Sam's brows furrow. Gabriel decides to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"I don't know how much you remember," he says softly, reaching to turn off the faucet with soapy fingers and then drawing Sam's other arm from the water. "But you won. You won the war."

He nudges Sam forward, using his clean hand to brush the kid's hair back from his neck, drawing the washcloth in a slick line down the curve of his spine. Sam shivers, but is otherwise still. "I read about it. The whole shebang. You saying yes, the final battle. Not really a battle. Your brother. _My_ brother. The whole world saved by the power of love, and the only people who are ever going to know…are you, and me, and our families. How fucked up is that? You turn yourself into a vegetable and no one is going to thank you for it. All the people you saved…this is just fiction, to them."

He draws the washcloth around to Sam's stomach, huffing softly. Sam is still bent forwards, hair falling around his face like a curtain. Gabriel barely knows what he's doing. He doesn't know how to take care of people. He can't even take care of _himself_ without calling Becky for help.

But even so, he leans up, pressing a kiss, quick and dry and almost _angry_, to the crown of Sam's head. He smells like pumpkin spice and old blood. Gabriel's lips tingle with the oddness of it. _Kissing_. He used to think kissing was a means to an end. Now, there's…there's just _more_ to it.

"Who gives a shit," he murmurs into Sam's hair. "All the important people know what went down. We'll find your dick brother and tell him what a hero you are, okay? Make him buy you your own car or something."

Sam sighs, like a weight has been lifted from him.

"But you tell anyone I said any of that and the deal's off, got it?"

"Gabriel," Sam murmurs, and he figures that's as good as a 'yes.'

~

That night, incidentally, is also the night that Gabriel mans up and touches himself for the first time since he died.

He doesn't make a big deal out of it. No scented candles, no long glances in the mirror. He just turns the shower on 'hot' and then steps under the spray, running a hand over his hip, up his side. Human nerves are a marvel, and he spends a few minutes just standing there, touching his arms and his shoulders, his neck, his stomach. Even places he'd never thought about before, his elbow, his jawline, spark sensation beneath his skin. He realizes, with some degree of incredulity, that he's ticklish. Running his fingers over the delicate skin at the back of his knees makes his stomach clench and startles a laugh out of him.

He doesn't have any particular face in mind when he slicks his palm with water, curls it around the base of his dick. _His_. He strokes himself, tentatively, and is nearly blindsided by the overwhelming _sensation_ of it. Pleasure sparks up and down his spine with every minute movement, and the slip-slide of the water.

It gets even better when he adds soap to the equation. There's something about the way it makes his hands glide across his skin, no friction, just one smooth and endless touch. He leans against the cool wall of the shower, breathing hard. It isn't like before – he had been Loki for hundreds and hundreds of years, of _course_ he hadn't been celibate. There had been a fair share of rituals that involved the 'seed of a god.' He's no stranger to this.

Except for the part where he _is_. Because it isn't like before. Sensation is magnified tenfold - he imagines he can feel each individual drop of water as it splashes against his skin. His hand, for the moment, is his absolute favorite appendage – it is better than his eyes and his ears and his beating heart, because _this_, this is…amazing. Wonderful. _Intense_. He curls his fingers tight and tighter until a moan chokes its way from his throat, long and shuddering and wrecked. He can't imagine how he ever held up to this before. How he ever lasted so long without it. It had never seemed _important_ \- he had always been more interested in the connection. Him and another person, other _people_. He had always been fascinated by the way humans reached out to each other.

He had never considered self-sufficiency. Even in this.

But if the image of a long, curved spine and shaggy hair and hazel eyes flashes briefly across his vision as he orgasms, well. He was an angel, but no one would ever accuse him of being a saint.

~

It takes Castiel a month to show up. A month in which Sam remembers how to dress himself (with Gabriel's help), how to feed himself, how to _talk_. He starts speaking in whole sentences again, things other than "I miss Dean" or "The sky told me." Gabriel finds Chuck's collection of Buffy DVDs and sits Sam in front of the TV for a whole afternoon, the two of them watching scene after scene of a tiny blonde girl fighting off the forces of evil.

"That's what you did," Gabriel points out, but whenever a monster looks too close to human, Sam turns his head and buries his face in Gabriel's shoulder. He likes Xander, though. Or at least, he watches raptly whenever Xander is on the screen.

A month for Gabriel to teach Sam how to make a sandwich, something that Gabriel is beginning to see as a sort of metaphor for the whole fucked up situation. Anyone can make a sandwich, but it takes time and effort to make a really _good_ one.

"Bread first," he instructs. "And then it depends on how you like sandwiches. Do you like cheese?"

"I think so," Sam says. So Gabriel painstakingly constructs a sandwich with far too much bread and meat and only one slice of cheese. Sam bites into it, and then makes a face at him. It lacks in the sort of heat that his expressions once carried – it's almost childish.

"If you want something, you have to learn how to make it happen on your own," Gabriel says. A few hours later, Sam presents him with a sandwich that appears to be nothing _but_ cheese. Gabriel gives him a gold star for effort, and Sam seems pretty happy with it, even if he picks half the cheese off before he starts eating.

One night is dedicated entirely to forcing Sam to remember how to shower. It's awkward, and Gabriel sees something in Sam's face that suggests his _knows_ it, but that he can't help himself. Like the part of him that remembers everything, the part of him that's undamaged, is locked away somewhere, unable to do anything but watch. Gabriel tries to keep this in mind when he talks to Sam, when he asks him questions.

"Is the water too hot?"

"A little."

"Remember which side to turn?"

Sam purses his lips. "Yes," he says shortly. That's the night that Gabriel gets kicked out of the bathroom. He still takes the time to lay Sam's clothes out for him, because Sam still hasn't quite gotten the concept of 'boxers first, then jeans,' and he'll gladly walk around naked if Gabriel lets him, and that's, just. No. Between the two of them, they have enough issues without adding nudity to the list.

A whole month of this. Of them. And Gabriel lets himself fall into a routine: wake up, have a cup of tea (coffee is still too grating, too disturbing on his tongue), wake Sam up. He calls Becky around noon every other day – she threatens to drive down and help him with Sam every single time, and every single time Gabriel tells her 'no.' He makes lunch for himself, and supervises Sam, who has graduated from sandwich chef to novice oven-master. Gabriel practices driving Chuck's stupidly old car. He manages to make it down to the corner store and back without killing anyone, and he counts it as a win. He buys more frozen pizzas – Sam has a knack for not burning them.

The last day before Castiel shows up, Sam is antsy, and Gabriel is impatient. Sam breaks two glasses before Gabriel finally finds him a plastic cup to drink his milk out of, and then Gabriel spends the day reading through Chuck's collection of Supernatural books, looking for the volumes with him in it. There are just the two – his chapter in the Winchester Gospels is very small, and if the rest of the books are never published, then this is how the world will remember him: as a Trickster, powerful but nameless, a creature too wily to be bested by the Winchesters, but ultimately too stupid to stay away.

He reads passages from _Tall Tales_ and _Mystery Spot_, and sees the glory of himself, as captured by the pen of a prophet. This is all that's left of his Grace. Words on a page.

And not even particularly _good_ words, at that.

He stays, curled there on the living room couch, the last two remnants of _him_ held in his lap. Sam putters around the kitchen, and Gabriel can _hear_ him knocking things over, putting them back, clattering around, but he doesn't care. It was never his house, or his life, hell, it was never even his fucking _body_. He can't keep taking responsibility for things that aren't his.

He closes his eyes and tries to dream of flying, the sheer exhilarating _freedom_ of no longer being tethered to the Earth, his aging body, _Sam_ (selfish as that seems), but lucid dreaming is the sort of thing you have to work for, and all Gabriel ever draws is a blank, accompanied by the feeling that he's _lost_. That he's never going to find his way home.

When he next opens his eyes, it's to find Sam crouching next to the couch, carefully still, holding one of those single-serving oven pizzas on a plate in one hand, his cup of milk in the other.

"I made this," Sam says, and the _for you_ is so loud in the silence it hurts Gabriel's ears. He takes the plate, and Sam beams at him.

And then he sways forward, and he kisses Gabriel, a short, dry peck at the corner of his mouth. Sam's lips are chapped and he needs to shave. He usually needs to be reminded – facial hair doesn't make him itch the way it does Gabriel.

It's the most innocent, guileless gesture that Gabriel has ever encountered, and it sends a rush of heat all the way up his spine, coiling somewhere around his ribs and his stomach. It isn't arousal. It isn't _anything_, as far as Gabriel's experience with emotions is concerned. It's so far off the edge of his mental map that he decides to just shuffle it off to the side and think about it…oh, maybe _never_.

"Thanks," Gabriel says; his breath puffs against Sam's cheek, and Sam rocks back on his heels, brows furrowed.

"I remember," Sam murmurs. "You did a lot of things that were…"

He seems to struggle to find the right words. Gabriel helpfully supplies him with, "Dickish."

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "But you're different, now."

"Speak for yourself. I'm already human, don't take away my title of 'Asshole of the Year,' too."

Sam rolls his shoulders, like he's uncomfortable or something. Gabriel has no idea what he has to be uncomfortable _about_. But then, he supposes these rare moments of perfect clarity aren't exactly a walk in the park for the guy. "You've…helped. Me. A lot."

Gabriel shrugs, and Sam makes a noise, full of impatience and the sort of impotent anger that Gabriel has been getting used to. Being human is all about feeling things, but rarely having the ability to do anything about them.

Sam, who labors under no such pretenses, simply _does_. In this case, he shoves irritably at Gabriel's hip until he scoots over, and then climbs onto the couch alongside him, his long legs knocking against Gabriel's, his hair in his face. Gabriel, for a moment, is stunned. It's been a while since he was stunned. He kind of likes it.

"Hey. _Hey_. No taking advantage of me," Gabriel protests, because he's uncomfortably aware of the dichotomy of power, is aware that the situation life has placed them in could be considered…

Sam presses another dry kiss to his cheek.

"I won't," Sam murmurs. "I wouldn't. And _you_ wouldn't."

And, weirdly enough, that makes him feel a little bit better.

~

Castiel at least has the good grace to use the front door, rather than popping in unannounced and freaking Sam out. Gabriel is organizing the rough drafts of the final books in the Winchester Gospel, getting them ready to email to Becky, when the doorbell buzzes. It takes him a minute to figure out what it is, because he's never actually _heard_ the doorbell before. The neighbors aren't the visiting type, and Gabriel doesn't invite people over, for obvious reasons. Sam, of course, has never been out of the house.

He clicks 'send' (the Internet, at least, is not difficult to understand), and then holds up his hand when Sam pokes his head out of the kitchen.

"Stay in there," he says softly. Because Lucifer might be rotting underground, but that doesn't mean there aren't still monsters out there, ready and willing to take a chunk out of a former archangel and a traumatized Winchester.

Except it isn't a monster. At least, not this time.

Gabriel leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. His heart beats too fast, _rabbit_ fast, beneath the press of his palms.

"Hey, bro," he says softly. "Been a while."

Castiel tilts his head. He's…unchanged. Which makes sense. He got that nifty little upgrade, after all. And Gabriel got a partially brain-damaged angelic vessel and some shiny new free will. There's no way to trade it in, but he would, in a heartbeat.

"Gabriel," he says. "You look…"

"Human." Because it's true. Castiel's eyes crinkle at the corners, and Gabriel realizes with a start that he's…_smiling_. Humanity, and the Winchesters in particular, have obviously done a number on him.

"I was going to say 'alive.' But…yes."

"Gabriel?"

A hand touches his forearm, drops down, and Gabriel rolls his eyes. "I told you to stay in the kitchen," he says, but Sam is looking over his shoulder, staring at Castiel. And Castiel is staring back. He isn't smiling, anymore.

"I know you," Sam says softly. And then, "Castiel."

"He has been through much," Castiel notes, and Gabriel snorts.

"No shit. He's been through _enough_. Either heal him completely or leave. I don't have time for bullshit, and least of all Heaven's."

Castiel stares. It's uncomfortable, now that he's human, because he knows that Castiel isn't just looking at _them_, he's looking at everything. At their minds, their souls, their pasts. Gabriel wonders what he sees, when he scans back and reaches that period of nothingness, the few days that Gabriel had been dead; does he remember what it was like, that single, infinite moment of nothing? And he wonders further what he sees when he looks at Sam – hellspawn, still? Or just another human?

"Neither of you will ever be 'just another human,'" Castiel says.

"Don't do that. Just…don't."

"I am not here on the business of Heaven," Castiel murmurs. "I am here for you. I did not…" He seems to be struggling for the right words, and Gabriel, spitefully, thinks _It serves you right. For being able to hear the song of the Host again, it serves you right that you should be struck dumb in my presence._ Real, old-school style thoughts of vengeance - he wants to pull Castiel's tongue out with iron tongs. Let him never speak of Heaven or God or angels to Gabriel again.

"I owe you an apology," Gabriel says. It isn't an apology – it's bitter and _hurt_, somewhere, roiling in his gut. "You were right. You were the only one who was ever right. The Lord chose you as the vessel of His will, and you've been rewarded. Now, beat it. I'm tired and I haven't eaten all day."

Strange, how things like that come so easily to his tongue – the act of eating is no longer indulgence, but requirement. Castiel is obviously perturbed by it, by the unashamed, animal need for it in the lines of Gabriel's body.

"It has…" Castiel swallows. "It has been some time, since I last…"

_Felt pity,_ Gabriel's mind offers up. He knows he's pitiful. Him and Sam, both. But what Castiel says is: "…Partook of a cheeseburger."

Gabriel stares. Sam, who until now has been watching their back and forth non-argument with ill-disguised interest, makes a soft, excited noise in the back of his throat.

"We could go _outside_," he says, and that, that naked _joy_ in his voice, over something as stupid as leaving the house, is what drives Gabriel's breath from him in a sigh, and his reluctance from him in a rush of warmth. Sam's huge hand brushes against his hip, too solid to be accidental.

"There's a diner not far from here," Gabriel offers tentatively. "I've never been in, but people look happy enough."

Sam's hand…squeezes. Soft.

"We have a lot to talk about," he says, and Castiel nods, and Gabriel…

Gabriel is just caught up in the middle.

  



End file.
